Epilogue
by FireOpal
Summary: Written because I am annoyed at the BBC. Oneshot, rating subject to change. Immediately postPotW, contains some mature themes and nasty words. Jack POV.Intended as an epilogue to the series, more explanation within.


**Updated comments, 13/04/05**

**FireOpal's Comments to her astute readers, who are much more versed in this than she is: **Hi guys! Um, yes, this is technically illegal according to the big site in the sky, but hopefully, they'll let me put this up.  
Guess I should've checked online for news about next season, huh? grins sheepishly OK, so I'm a right idiot. But, I still think as a story in it's own right, it ain't **too** bad. Thank you for educating me to the truth! I cannot **wait **to see my third favourite character back soon, poor chap.  
So, basically, this one-shot is now AU. Damn. Well, read if you wanna. Yes, I'm thick. Apologies.

**Original comments.**

**F/C:- **I have no idea if they plan to bring back John Barrowman in the next series, or the Christmas special, but to be honest, I don't know how they can. As I see it, the BBC have really dug themselves into a hole with this one. I mean, they can't just leave him there, can they? So, in a fit of annoyance and depression, and hoping that some bigwig from the BBC will read this and realise their error (highly unlikely), I wrote this. COME BACK JACK, ALL IS FORGIVEN! WE LOVE JACK!  
Anyway, this is intended as an epilogue to PotW. It is depressing, gory and generally nasty. And beta'ed by EbonyBeach, who has only just seen 'Boomtown'. _shakes head_ Poor poor woman.  
Mostly Jack POV.

* * *

**Why the BBC are idiots, or possibly Why we need Jack to be in the next episode, because otherwise…**

Set exactly after PotW, Jack POV. Depressing, gory and generally nasty.

He ran, his heart in his throat, his feet pounding the metal floors. He knew that sound, he knew it far too well.

Skidding to a halt in the wire-tangled main room of Floor 500, he watched, his heart sink and break as the TARDIS disappeared, the top light flashing and the grinding and whirring of the engines echoing around the large room.

They had gone. Left. Left him here, and they weren't coming back.

Confused and alone, Jack sank to the floor and curled up for the first time in several years, bowing his head as tears fell from his eyes and traced their way down his face.

* * *

He had died. He clearly remembered it. The Dalek army was advancing on the top floor, and he had run out of bullets. He even remembered pulling the usual wisecrack, and had wryly thought to himself that he had at least had decent last words. After all, he bet no one else in history had ever retorted to a Dalek's war cry.

Did they know he was alive? Where they even alive? In his heart, he kept hoping and praying to a long-forsaken god that they would come back, joking and asking if he had missed them. Maybe they couldn't return. Maybe they were dead – what happened to ownerless TARDIS' anyway? Maybe the Doctor had gone back to check on Rose, to tell her of the late Jack's last stand. And, his heart contracted painfully; maybe they had forgotten him.

Was he even alive? He was breathing, and he could feel his heartbeat, but what else could he compare to – you don't die every day. Maybe this torment was death, and he really had died…

His trembling fingers once again traced the burnt edges of his shirt, feeling the unmarred skin underneath. He didn't feel dead, except inside, in his soul. Because they had gone, and whatever had happened, they weren't coming back.

* * *

It took him two days to finally get to his feet, unsteadily, and, ignoring the strange piles of dust that were everywhere, and the corpses that were in between, he went in search of something to drink. Something alcoholic. Something strong.

Finally, he found a nearly empty drinks cabinet. Snatching the only large bottle of strange green liquid he could see, he uncorked it, sat down, leaning against the metal walls of the satellite, and drank. The liquid burned his throat, leaving a faint after taste of liquorice, but it was good, and as his brain became depressed soup, he surrendered mercifully into heady drunkenness.

* * *

Some time later, still completely pissed, he returned to Floor 500, seeking solace in the familiar room. Stupid prats, leaving him here. All alone. So alone.

Loneliness he could bear, he mused dizzily. His years as a con-man had taught him that. A man was only a man when he was on his own and looking out for number one. He couldn't have forgotten that already, could he? He had only been with Them (he choked on Their names) for, what was it, a month? Something like that. A month, and ole' Jack boy was getting attached. If he weren't so drunk, he'd be annoyed at himself. Though, actually, if he weren't so drunk, he'd be wondering why he was taken so long.

Rule number one of being a con-man – look after number one. Jack chuckled. That was true enough. He had learnt that lesson the hard way – with the Time Agency taking two years of his memories. Bloody bureaucratic bastards. Bloody bureaucratic beastly bastards. Bloody bureaucratic beastly something beginning with 'b' bastards.

Taking the last swig of the imported absinthe, he eyed the empty bottle contemptuously, before throwing it at the back wall, approximately where the TARDIS had stood. Scowling at the large letters above him proclaiming 'Bad Wolf', he sank to the floor again and leant against a console. He had loved them, in his way. Saved their fucking time travelling arses, just so they could leave him here. Alone. And not even with a good supply of alcohol.

Bastards.

He felt his mind slip gently into darkness as his eyes fluttered shut, and embraced unconsciousness as a thirsty man reaches for water.

* * *

It had been two weeks. Admittedly, most of it had been spent drunk, or hung over, but Jack was now gloomily facing utter desperation. No food, no drink, and surrounded by decaying corpses. Just how he wanted to be brought back to life.

He had even tried contacting Earth repeatedly, botching together the old technology like an old hand. But, despite his best efforts, the panicked planet were ignoring him, or not receiving the signal. He laughed scornfully at humanity, carefully ignoring the fact that he was in fact human. Stupid apes – take away their TV and their reality game shows, and they were floundering little sheep without a flock. Ha.

He was going to die – no doubt about it. Here, alone, on a satellite over a hundred years in his past, he was going to die of starvation. It almost seemed typical. Well, at least there was nobody to worry for him, or to grieve when he was just another corpse on this graveyard. His mother had died at an early age, and his father not long after that. Young Jack had grown up quickly, being shunted to his uncaring uncle until he was old enough to join the Time Academy, and then the Agency. No family would organise his funeral, no friends to cry over his dead body. All his friends were dead, not born yet, or unknown.

He had taken up residence in a rather comfy chair in a smaller control room, now unable to bear going up to the top floor. He licked his dry lips with a dry tongue, and mentally cursed. He had nearly died millions of times – starvation seemed very, well, common. Being blown up by a German bomb destined for the London Blitz, now that was a good way to go. Dissolved into nothing by a time rift in Cardiff wasn't quite as showy, but not too bad either. Death by scary makeover robots was pretty lame he had to admit, but it probably wasn't as darn uncomfortable as sitting here, too weak to move. Quick and painless definitely had its advantages from where he was sat.

His eyes fluttered open as the thought occurred to him. Hmmm, starvation or suicide? Oh well, it wasn't as if anyone was going to know, or care. With great deliberation, he lifted himself off of the chair, and collapsed to the ground, panting. He was weaker than he thought.

Crawling, inch by inch, he made his way across the room, his tired eyes searching desperately for something sharp, something, anything. He was heading for the door, pulling himself up with a console when he saw it. A gun, discarded by one of his army of freedom fighters. That would do.

His fingers grasped the handle weakly, and he dragged it towards himself. Ah, an old Hetgafter 'OZ. Nice model, bit big for his usual tastes, but it would have to do. Wrenching the suddenly heavy weapon with one hand, he brought it to his temple, closed his eyes and smiled as his finger pulled on the trigger.

"See you in hell."

* * *

"Sir, the power should be up in a few minutes. We're just bringing up the back up supply. Seems the electricity went not long after we stopped receiving transmission." The voice crackled over the commander's in-built headset in his helmet.

"Good work. Now, try and find out what you can about why. It's only been a month, there should be enough data for you boffins to figure it out."

"Roger, cap."

"Edards, you check that control room!" the leader of the recon mission barked at the young ensign, and he hurriedly complied, prying open the door with one heavily gloved hand. He glanced around the room, the light on his helmet lighting up the pitch-black rooms, and breathed in sharply as he saw the dark maroon stain that covered a large part of the floor. Hearing his reaction, the commander followed, tracing his torch with a sweep of his gun.

Just as they were edging carefully into the room, the overhead lights flickered on with a hum of power. The vents started pumping recycled air back around the rooms, and a few consoles started into life.

"Sir," Edards said as calmly as he could, unable to drag his eyes away. He had walked on a bit further, and stopped, his gaze fixated on something beyond the commander's sight. "We have a body."

"Not another one." The commander grouched, walking up behind the ensign. Even he had to retort a gasp at the sight. The body was emaciated, and partly decayed already, but the large, blood-encrusted wound on the man's temple was obviously the source of death, and the blood that coated the floor. It had soaked into his white t-shirt, staining it brown, and the slight smile on the dead man's lips was more than a little disturbing.

The commander was quickly brought back from his morbid fascination by the sound of retching from behind him. He turned, and patted the younger man on the back comfortingly as he lost his breakfast, helmet removed in favour of vomiting.

Looking back just once, he spared a quick prayer for the deceased man, before continuing his mission.

**OK, please, no more comments on how thick I am? Lol.**


End file.
